


Special Request: Bob Fic

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-08 18:17:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17391269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Morning guys! So, a while ago two anonymous readers asked if I could maybe try to write a fic that featured Bob, rather than Van. There wasn't a specific prompt, other than cute/fluff. Here is my attempt… I don't know how I feel about it, but I like to make people happy so I've tried. To the people that requested this - please let me know if you like it! To everyone else - I hope you enjoy a little break from Van, and we will return to him next story. Lastly, shout out to falloutforyou for helping me with some of the ideas.





	Special Request: Bob Fic

If life was a play, then you surely were not the star; maybe the best friend, the supporting role at most. More accurately, you thought of yourself as a background character. The girl in the cute coat buying tea while the protagonists argued in line. Person on the bus number 5. Woman holding books in the background. You'd be lucky to get one line. So, when you joined a group of drummers to try to expand your skill set, you did not expect your presence to be noticed. When you walked into the room, however, all eyes were on you. All the other people in the room were dudes though, so you didn't know if the attention really counted. You were introduced to everyone, and told there was a few people that joined in via Skype. There were some chairs set up with laptops open. 

You settled into the group well, and you were kind of glad that the attention died down. Once you had been able to show your skills on the kit you felt more at ease and more yourself. It was your sixth or seventh session when you thought maybe that self-consciousness was going to come back. The day was gloomy with heavy rain and grey skies. You'd ran from your car to the door of the theatre the group was held in. You slowed when there was a figure loitering at the door. There was a small porch that was shielding the person from the downpour. As you got closer you realised you didn't recognise him. You knew he was there for the group though, because he held drum sticks and a folder which presumably held sheets of music. 

As you climbed the steps he looked over at you and smiled. It hit you then. He was one of the people that usually existed within the screen of a laptop. You didn't know how the hundreds of curls bouncing of his head didn't tell you that earlier. You looked at him for too long before speaking. He was beautiful. His eyes were a clear blue, and he had one freckle on his cheek that stood out more than the others. It was distracting in the best way possible. He was looking at you too, but you assumed because you were standing with your mouth open a little bit not saying anything. 

"Uh, sorry. Hi. Hi, I'm Y/N," you said, holding out a hand. He took it. His skin was warm and you could feel the callouses from the years of holding the sticks. He nodded and his hair moved like it had its own life. 

"Yeah. I've watched you," he paused when he heard the words come out, "I mean, through Skype in the group… I'm Bob Hall" His awkwardness made you feel better in yours. 

"Are you waiting for someone?" you asked. 

"The door is locked," he said. You nodded. Maybe you were a bit early. You leaned against the wall opposite Bob. He looked at you then looked away quickly. You thought you should say something; make small talk. 

"How come you normally Skype in? Work away?" you asked. He starts to nod. 

"Yeah. I'm in a band. We tour a lot," he told you.

"Wow. That's really cool. I wish I could just play all day," 

"Yeah. Got lucky. What do you do?"

And so started the talk that was small. It flowed naturally though, which was more than you could say about most conversations you had with a lot of the group. Or the human population. It was fifteen minutes later when you realised the door was not going to be unlocked. 

"Do you think we should call Todd?" Bob asked. Todd was the group organiser. More importantly, Bob said 'we' like you were some sort of collective. You shrugged. 

"Probably. It's freezing out here." 

You watched Bob call, listen, and make some sort of face you couldn't read. He hung up and sighed. He looked at you and smiled. Sunshine. Pure fucking sunshine. 

"Do you want the good news or the bad news?" he asked. 

"Bad,"

"The bad news nobody is coming. Group got cancelled because of the weather," 

"Lazy fucking drummers. What's the good news?"

"Well… They posted that critical information on Facebook, which I don't have. You obviously don't either," he told you. You nodded, listening, waiting for the good news. "That's the good news. We don't Facebook." 

We. 

You laughed out loud. 

"Right. Well. I guess I go home now," you said, but it sounded like a question. You didn't want to leave. The little porch had become a place where you could pretend to be the protagonist of this story. You pushed off the wall. He followed your lead and did the same.

"Did you drive?" he asked. You stopped moving. The conversation could keep going, if only for a few more syllables. 

"No. Caught the bus. Brutal," you said. 

"Do you want a lift?" he asked. 

You accepted so quickly you were worried you'd given yourself away. If you had, he didn't seem to mind. His car was clean, except for Van was here written across the dashboard in what appeared to be permanent marker. 

"Van was here?" you asked. 

"He was," Bob replied in a tone that suggested whoever Van was, he was someone that often left evidence of his existence behind. Wanted or not. 

Bob started to drive without asking where he should drop you. Normally, that would be a stressful thing for you. You were happy to let him drive in the opposite direction if it meant longer in the car with him. He was driving to the centre of town. 

"So I guess you're free for the next couple of hours then?" he said. You'd been driving for five minutes, and you listened to music rather than talk. It was quiet and comfortable. You'd been watching the rain make little tracks across the car windows. You turned to Bob and shook your head no. "Do you maybe want to get coffee or something?" he asked. Maybe you could have answered with a little more coolness, but no such luck. 

"Yes, definitely." 

Bob laughed, then pushed his glasses back up his nose.

As he parked, it occurred to you that he had been driving here from the beginning of the trip. He'd always planned on coming straight to this café. He never planned on dropping you home. It was presumptuous, but it was also amazing. He opened the door for you, and talked you into a citrus tart. 

"I have a confession," he said as he leaned back on his chair, arm resting on the empty one next to him. His held was on a tilt and he had been watching you carefully. He'd asked more questions than he'd answered, and you'd talked more about yourself in the space of thirty minutes than you had in probably the last year. 

"Good confession or bad?" you replied. 

"Guess it depends…" he hesitated. "I flew back early from tour. We had a few more days after the last show to wind down, but I came for the group today," 

"I don't know if that's a confession," 

"No, that's the context. The confession is I came back for group so I could meet you." 

Things like this - like Bob Hall and his freckle and laugh, like a boy skipping cool band parties to meet you - didn't happen to you. They happened to the main character. But that was it, this was your story. It was you. 

"I… That is… good," was all you could manage to say. He laughed again and nodded. 

You stayed in the window of the café for hours and your main character back story was told, and so was his. You watched the rain pour and wasted time together guessing the lives of all the people around you. Bob was kind and gentle and seemed to inherently understand your awkwardness. He looked at you like you were art. The cool drummer girl with her coordinated arms and her sparkly eyes and pretty laugh. If life was a play, Bob Hall didn't pay much attention until you walked on stage.


End file.
